


There is Nothing Better for a Man

by whymylife (nabringa)



Series: So I Commend the Enjoyment of Life [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Child Soldiers, Dick Grayson is Damian Wayne’s Parent, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jason and Cass and Duke and Bruce are also mentioned, No beta we die like mne, Recovery, Romani Dick Grayson, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, commentary on child soldiers, slow recovery that doesn't even really start til the end but it still counts, why is there so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nabringa/pseuds/whymylife
Summary: The problem-- Dick realizes quickly-- is that he isn’t sure he wants to get better. If he doesn’t have this-- this dependency or addiction or disorder or whatever the hell it is-- if he doesn’t have this to hold him together, what's to stop him from falling apart? What's to stop the cracks and crevices in his heart from splitting fully, and shattering the rest of him in the process?The answer is nothing. Nothing at all.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: So I Commend the Enjoyment of Life [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860463
Comments: 20
Kudos: 138





	There is Nothing Better for a Man

**Author's Note:**

> So... I wrote a thing. Much less coherent and much more angsty than my last thing (like seriously guys I didn't know I was capable of writing anything this melodramatic(?) and yet here we are) but I'm tired of looking at it so here ya go!

The problem-- Dick realizes quickly-- is that he isn’t sure he wants to get better. If he doesn’t have this-- this dependency or addiction or disorder or whatever the hell it is-- if he doesn’t have this to hold him together, what's to stop him from falling apart? What's to stop the cracks and crevices in his heart from splitting fully, and shattering the rest of him in the process?

The answer is nothing. Nothing at all.

(There has to be something. There has to be a better way. This whatever-the-hell-it-is is breaking him down, leaving gaping holes behind that will someday consume him. He can’t let this go on.)

(But he can’t just make it stop, either. Not without something to replace it.)

Dick doesn’t fully understand why, but Alfred is helpful. He is more than helpful. Alfred is sympathetic and understanding and calm and all the things Dick needs him to be without being accusing or angry or disappointed. He does research, schedules appointments and drives Dick to them, locks up the sweets and cooks well-rounded meals when Dick is at the manor, offers to monitor what Dick is eating when he is in Bludhaven.

Dick is so relieved he could cry, but. He can’t put the weight of this whatever-the-hell-it-is on Alfred. This is his problem. And unfortunately, it’s a problem he neither wants to nor knows how to fix.

(Not completely. Not yet. But maybe someday. Maybe someday, before it’s too late.)

(Unless it’s already too late.)

So Dick goes to the appointments and eats what Alfred puts in front of him and stops sneaking things out of the pantry, but. He also keeps going out for ice cream after patrol. And manages his own food when he visits Bludhaven.

\---

Going to the support groups and therapists Alfred lines up doesn't help much. They aren’t going to help until Dick wants them to help, and Dick isn’t sure what he wants yet. He does make an effort to skim the pamphlets Alfred gives him, but they don’t hold his attention very well.

The problem is, none of the pamphlets are about him. This whatever-the-hell-it-is, this isn’t about his body or his weight. Dick knows he’s not fat. He is very good looking, actually; and is rather proud of the fact that he can maintain his muscle mass despite his eating habits.

Because it’s not about his body. It never has been. It’s about security, safety, control. It’s about maintaining his mask-- his smile-- his mask for the world. It’s about feeling good.

(Maybe if he just found something else that made him feel good. Maybe he could swap the two things out, and his brain wouldn’t notice. Maybe it would be fine.)

(But what?)

\---

Alfred sends him an article about sugar's effect on the brain, and Dick stares at the title with dread creeping up from his stomach into his throat for nearly half an hour before closing the email.

Alfred sends him more articles, about the difference between addiction and psychological dependence, and about malnutrition, and about breaking and building habits, and about everything besides how to permanently fill the cracked cistern that comprises Dick’s soul.

\---

The ice cream thing becomes a routine. It’s something to look forward to, to hold off for. Dick can ignore all other temptations if he knows there is an extra large cone of mint chocolate chip ice cream waiting for him before the day ends. He can confine himself to one cone per day during the week if he knows he can eat however many he wants when spending the night at his apartment over the weekend. He can control himself. He can.

Knowing that Alfred knows-- that Alfred cares-- makes it easier. To be in control, to say no. To stop after one cone and go straight home. To keep the binging and purging confined to the Saturday nights when he goes back to Bludhaven for patrol or to investigate a case.

The daily ice cream and the odd weekend binge? This is enough. This can work. This is something secure, safe, and controlled. It gives him the ability to maintain his mask-- his smile-- his mask. It makes him feel good.

(The problem-- Dick realizes quickly-- is that this control he has? It’s tenuous. One particularly bad day is going to break it. One particularly bad day when he needs more than an extra large cone of mint chocolate chip ice cream to fill the cracks, more than the promise of a weekend alone in his apartment to stop-up the crevices.)

\---

It isn’t until Damian-- his brother, his son, the child he loved and raised and fought for-- it isn’t until Damian comes to him with bleeding stripes across his shoulders and real fear in his eyes that Dick understands Alfred’s reaction.

(Dick wants to cry. He wants to scream and rage and wrap his little brother-- his son-- his little brother in arms of velvet and steel and hold him close and keep him safe and--)

(But Dick doesn’t know how to cry on his own, anymore. He’ll have to wait until he’s alone in his apartment on Saturday night with enough food for his absent family and the space and time to release the emotions he’s been storing up all week. The safety and security to take his mask off and lose control.)

Dick makes sure Damian is under Alfred’s supervision for the weekend, and goes to Bludhaven a day early.

(He hates himself for not being there for Damian, for dumping the kid on Alfred when he so obviously needs and wants his older brother, for making Damian’s problems about himself.)

(He still goes to Bludhaven a day early. But he comes back a day early, too.)

\---

Dick does research, schedules appointments and drives Damian to them, locks all of Damian’s weapons in his own weapons safe. Damian asks him not to tell anyone else-- and he won’t, Dick would never betray Damian’s trust like that-- but Dick makes the rest of the household understand that if they lose track of a weapon-- or anything sharp at all-- at any time in the near future they are to report what is missing to him, immediately. It won’t do much for an assassin who knows how to kill with a paperclip, but the effort matters. Dick knows from experience. 

Jason was suspicious, but agreed after he saw how serious Dick was. Duke agreed quickly, simply, and without suspicion. Alfred’s shoulders seemed to slump, and the corners of his eyes seemed to droop, but he quietly affirmed that he would keep his kitchen knives in a weapon’s safe when not in use.

Bruce and Cassandra kept their weapons too carefully close to even waste time asking.

Tim understood exactly who and what Dick was talking about without having to hear more than the vague explanation that it wasn’t safe to have weapons unaccounted for in a household like the Wayne’s. But he didn’t push. He simply nodded grimly, promising to double check that anything with sharp edges was where it was supposed to be every morning and night.

(Tim. Dick’s seen the way Tim lingers on the edges of rooftops, noticed that sometimes Tim doesn’t fire his grapple line until the last possible second. Like he is waiting for something, but it never happens. Like he is waiting for the courage to fall, but it never comes.)

(If he’d been a better brother, if he had been there for Tim instead of focused on his own problems, maybe he could have--)

(No. He doesn't have the strength to shoulder Tim’s burdens, too. He has to focus on Damian right now. Damian is the one who came to him for help. Damian is the one who needs him. Damian-- Damian and himself. That’s two people too many, but that’s who needs him the most. That’s who he has to save his strength for.)

Dick pulls Alfred and Bruce aside, and tells them to watch Tim a little closer, if they can. Especially around heights.

A few weeks later, Dick sees Alfred leaving the manor in one of the more subdued cars, Tim slouched over in the passenger seat.

\---

Damian starts to draw on his arms. He says it was suggested at one of his appointments, and he thought it might be... Helpful. So Dick buys endless packets of skin-safe markers, and Damian starts drawing on his arms. Which means he also starts wearing long sleeves regularly. In the summer.

Dick doesn’t mind the increased caution, because he knows all Damian is hiding are the quotes and landscapes and doodles of animals and objects and plants that wreath his thin wrists, and all he is hiding from are the expected taunts about childish habits and wasteful hobbies.

(None of which would come, but nothing Dick can say will convince Damian of his family’s care and concern; their love for him. Damian will have to discover that on his own. He will have to test the waters and decide what parts of himself he is comfortable sharing with his family; what bits and pieces of his soul he will allow them to see.)

(The genuine excitement and anticipation Dick feels at the thought of Damian opening up more startles him. He spends the rest of the day trying to remember the last time he was truly looking forward to something.)

Nobody else really notices the switch-- nobody except Tim, who gives Damian and Dick matching glares full of suspicious concern at breakfast for the first week-- and Dick doesn't know whether to be thankful or sad about that.

(Not that he would be able to clearly identify either of those emotions anymore.)

Some mornings Damian comes downstairs with long sleeves hiding rainbow patterns that climb nearly to the thin scars on his shoulders, and some mornings he comes downstairs with short sleeves and nut-brown skin clean and healthy. Gradually, those mornings become more and more frequent.

There is one morning, about five months after Damian first came to Dick, when Damian comes downstairs for breakfast in short sleeves, an intricate pattern that almost looks like henna-- and embroidery and vines and Gotham architecture-- twining around his forearm, and barely hidden wariness.

Bruce looks up briefly and raises an eyebrow before going back to his open case file. Cass, Jason, and Alfred give appreciative nods. Duke scoots closer for a better look and asks permission before tracing his finger over the colorful lines. Tim beams into his coffee mug.

Damian relaxes, and digs into his oatmeal.

Dick releases the breath he’s been holding for the last five months.

\---

All scars can be shared with no shame in this family, simply because they are less a family and more a band of warriors, bound together by the campaigns they have fought for and against each other. To them, scars speak of nothing more than battles fought and won, never mind who or what against.

It is the softer things-- the things that speak of a longing for something besides this life of endless battles they’ve chosen-- it is those things that are kept hidden. Secret. Safe.

(Dick isn’t sure there is any part of him left that is soft. Any part of him that knows how to imagine another way of life. Any part of him that hadn’t been willingly given or slowly consumed by the crusade he joined as a child. He lived and breathed the battlefield. All his hobbies, habits, and dreams were wrapped up in it. His family, friends, lovers. All his happiness and hurt.)

(He gave all he had but more was asked of him each day. He was being drained away and no matter what he filled himself up with he could never be full because it just kept taking and taking and taking-- )

(He chose this. He chose the war, and let it consume him. Damian made the same choice. Dick just hopes the war will go easy on Damian, won’t take and take and take until his brother-- his son-- his brother has nothing left to give. Nothing left to drain away, and nothing left to long for.)

\---

The problem-- Dick realizes slowly-- is that he isn’t sure who he is besides a soldier. A son, yes. The son of a general who only takes pride in his children’s accomplishments on the battlefield. A brother, yes. The brother of soldiers giving their all and receiving little. A close friend and acquaintance of yet more soldiers fighting numerous, endless wars.

Dick hadn’t been old enough to know who he was or what he wanted when he dedicated himself heart, soul, mind-- and body-- to Bruce’s war. Hadn’t been old enough to know who he was or what he wanted, other than flight.

Richard Grayson was born with wings on his back, and he had foolishly pledged their use to Batman and all The Dark Knight stood for before he’d even grown into them.

\---

The day after Damian came downstairs in short sleeves, Dick decides to read some of those articles Alfred sent him months ago. He digs through his saved emails for an hour until he finds one about habits. It’s an easy read, with lots of concrete examples and suggestions.

(Maybe he could find a solution. Maybe whatever-the-hell-it-is was just a habit that needed to be broken.)

Dick reads the article, and starts to chew gum. The sweetest, most flavorful gum he can find. Anything besides mint, really. It doesn’t break or replace his whatever-the-hell-it-is, but it helped with controlling when he ate. With being conscious of when he was craving something. When and why he was hunting for a snack. 

(This whatever-the-hell-it-is wasn't about chewing or tasting. Chewing was a means to an end, and all food tasted like ash and bile these days, no matter the sugar content. The problem was the feeling of being empty, and the desire to be full.)

It's just gum. It's nothing to be proud of. It's not a solution. But it is a first step. It’s an admission to himself that he wants something more. He wants to get better. This won't fix what was broken, but it's a way of reminding himself that it could be fixed.

Even if it failed spectacularly in the long run, it was better than what he was doing before in the short term. Dick would rather pay dentist bills than hospital bills. Cheaper, and hospital stays were harder to hide. Harder to lie convincingly about.

\---

Tim invites Dick out for burgers after patrol one night. So Dick skips the ice cream and leaves the gum in his pocket and eats a burger with his little brother instead. Just to break up routine a bit. Just to hang out with Tim, who he doesn’t see often anymore.

(Tim, who had given and given and given and been drained nearly dry just like Dick and Damian and everyone else in this flock of survivors they call a family. Tim, who, despite Alfred’s intervention, still lingered on the edges of bridges and buildings when he thought nobody was watching.)

It’s nice, actually, to eat something savory-- even if it’s not exactly healthy-- on a rooftop with his brother and talk about life. Eventually the conversation turns from the stress of the latest big case to the struggles of leadership. Tim gets it, more so than anyone else. He led his own Titans for years, and now leads Wayne Enterprises. All at once it hits Dick that the awkward young vigilante badly in need of a haircut who is currently wiping ketchup off his chin while perched on a gargoyle at four in the morning has a reputation as one of the most formidable CEOs on the East Coast. Probably the entire country.

Dick feels the corners of his mouth twitch from where they are frozen in a smile, and huffs out something that might be considered a real laugh, and almost falls off his own gargoyle in surprise. Tim’s voice cracks in a shriek as he reaches out to catch Dick, and drag him back to the roof proper. They land on the gravel in a tangle of limbs and slightly squashed fast food. For some reason that makes Dick laugh harder, which makes Tim laugh too, and then they are both laughing. Belly-deep laughter born from relief and joy that shakes them both silly until they are a heaving mess of loose limbs and pulverized fries sprawled across uneven pebbles.

Flushed and still stifling leftover laughter, Dick sits and pulls Tim up with him. He can feel the blinding force of Tim’s rare grin, and knows his eyes are equally bright under the domino.

Dick suddenly realizes how much he loves his brother, and how much his brother loves him.

(The pieces of his broken heart shift, and find a new way to mesh together. Stop up some of their own cracks and let the love linger longer in the crevices.)

Dick doesn’t get to finish his burger, and the fries are a lost cause, but he feels fuller than he has in a long time. He doesn’t stop on his way home that night.

\---

Dick decides to take a break from vigilante work, maybe go on vacation. Tour Europe or something. Take a break from the safety and security of routine, and surrender control of his corner of the battlefield to his fellow soldiers for a time.

(Just for a bit. Just so he can figure some stuff out. Just so he can get his head on straight and make a plan to fight this what-ever-the-hell-it-is and beat it for good.)

(Just so he can learn to fly on his own.)

After nearly two months of pleading, Bruce allows Damian to go with him. That means they will be under strict surveillance and follow a strict schedule, but Dick desperately wants to know if he can make Damian laugh like Tim did on the roof, ketchup and mustard smeared on his check and head thrown back in jubilation under the starlight.

(Maybe--)

**Author's Note:**

> Recovery is messy, mostly because it involves knowing a lot about yourself. Why exactly you got to the place you were in, where exactly you want to go from there, and what exactly you are willing to do to make that transition happen. In the process of coming up with answers to those questions you usually have to face a lot of truth about yourself you don't always want to hear, but need to hear. It's rough. 
> 
> In other news, I'm thinking of having the boys join the circus next time around. (Because Bruce might be onto something with the whole 'doing back-flips cures trauma', but only under the right conditions.) Thoughts?


End file.
